


Son of the South

by McGuck



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Angst, M/M, Trans Male Character
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-24
Updated: 2015-12-24
Packaged: 2018-05-08 21:21:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,473
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5513705
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/McGuck/pseuds/McGuck
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of one-shot McGucket drabbles since I'm basically too lazy to write something long and coherent. I don't always mention it but he's trans in all my fics so enjoy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Forget me Not

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Old Man McGucket lets his feelings get a bit out of control. Angst.

On days when he was coherent enough to recognize that the face in the mirror was not a strange man staring back at him, he would press a wrinkled hand to the cold glass; brilliant blue eyes shining back at him, set behind a face that was drawn and tired with age and the delirium of thirty years.

A hand cupped his mouth, squeezing, gnarled knuckles repressing the urge to sob – he could not let anyone see him cry; he could not let anyone see this side of him; the broken side – his mind had been gone for the past three decades; but in a world full of frowns and harsh feelings, the last thing that Fiddleford McGucket wanted to do was add his suffering to the melting pot.

The tears came, anyway; one breathy sob choking between what remained of his teeth in a harsh gasp that left him holding his forehead in a trembling hand; the salty taste of his sorrow trickling down past sunken eyes to pepper his lips and tongue. He cried, openly, in his humble little shack. His hovel, which smelled faintly of tobacco, of moonshine, of the dust and grit that stained his bare and bandaged feet. A home adorned with animal skins and tarnished by the graffiti of thoughtless neighborhood teenagers; who, just as everyone else, knew that the little old man who lived in the junkyard was an easy target.

They hated him. They all hated him. No matter how much he tried to befriend them, no matter how open and vulnerable he allowed himself to be, they still hated him. They had right to, more than a right – and what good was he, really, if he couldn't make other people happy? Make them feel welcome? Entertain them? What good was he if he couldn't even make is own son happy? The disgust he'd seen in Tate's face the day he'd piloted the Gobblewonker; the embarrassment, the shame – it'd made his tired old heart sink faster in his chest than anything that had ever sunk in that lake.

He hated it. The feeling of his mind betraying him, the way he said and did things spontaneously; without thought; things that made so much sense at the time – but, slowly, he would come around, as if aroused from a half-lucid state of semi-consciousness; he would feel the eyes on him _(eyes, why did they seem so dangerous?)_ ; and the laughing -

And then he'd realize, quite suddenly, that what had at first seemed so obvious was not normal, not right, not at all – it was embarrassing, shameful, something to laugh at. _He_ was something to laugh at. 

After years of this, Fiddleford new exactly what he was. He was useless, he was humiliating; an embarrassment to is son, a laughing stock to everyone else. Only good for a joke. For someone to point a finger at; an attraction, a sideshow. He was the silly little old hillbilly that lived in the dump. 

That's who he was. That was his reality, the only reality he'd known since losing his memory all those years ago. Who was he, really? Who had he been, before this – before he'd woken up in the museum, delirious and scared; shaking like a leaf, mumbling to himself; to demons he didn't remember, yet couldn't forget?

He was afraid, deathly afraid, that someday he would remember; that what he'd remember would just affirm everything he'd ever thought about himself; everything everyone else had ever thought about him -

He didn't know who he'd been, but he had a good feeling that he couldn't have been someone who'd had worth; someone who'd had value; or someone who'd been loved.

And he probably never would be.


	2. I Saw Grunkle Kissing Santa Claus

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fiddleford and Stan share some Christmas cheer

Stan gazed at Fiddleford McGucket, guiding the other man’s mittened hands into his own. The first tendrils of frost had just begun to creep overtop the grass in the early mornings just about a week ago, and today had been pocketed with light bursts of snowfall that had blanketed the sleepy town in a light dust.

 

McGucket stood in the doorway of the Mystery Shack, cheeks rosy from the cold, nose redder than ever; his sparkling blue eyes alight with childish naivety and happiness. He was swaddled in a big red coat that made him look much rounder than he actually was beneath all the layers; his fluffy white beard, clean and trimmed; though still quite long; fell down his front. In one hand he held an empty bag. He looked the very spirit of every Santa Claus decoration Stan had ever seen, so much so that Stan was a little startled by the high-pitched, squeaky Southern drawl that passed from between McGucket’s  lips; rather than the more iconic deep and soulful voice of Father Christmas.

 

“Just got done deliverin’ all the presents,” the little old man shouldered his empty sack as Stan ushered him inside. “Susan’s usin’ the fruit cake I gave her as a doorstop for the diner!” He puffed his chest out proudly, displaying a full set of pearly white teeth – now that he was living with Stan, he’d been able to afford the dentures he’d been needing for nearly 30 years now.

 

Stan rolled his eyes, sliding Fiddleford’s coat down off his shoulders and hanging it up on the rack by the door. “You don’t owe this to these people, you know. They treated you like garbage for three decades. Bunch of penny-pinching two-bit wastes if you ask me.”  
  


“Oh it don’t matter none t’ me, Mr. Pines,” that simple smile crept its way across Fiddleford’s face again. He was wearing a loose-fitting white tank beneath his jacket, and his pants were held up by a pair of suspenders that criss-crossed in the back.  The way his shirt was tucked accentuated his soft potbelly, an uncharacteristic bit of chub on an otherwise scrawny frame. Stan felt himself staring for a bit too long, clearing his throat apologetically as Fiddleford began talking again, apparently unaware of the wandering gaze. “You should see the kids’ faces when I came around with m’ bag, thought I was the real Santa I reckon. Weren’t even disappointed when they found out it was Old Man McGucket – makes me wish Tate was a boy again.”

 

Stan hated how it made his heart feel when Fiddleford talked like this, the damn old fellow was just so pleased to make a few kids happy; and now that the kids had left the Shack to spend the rest of the year with their parents, Stan was more than happy to have the old coot as his house guest, friend, and lover. A sly smile crossed the larger man’s face as he pulled McGucket towards the kitchen, the scent of freshly-baked cookies causing the large nose to twitch in anticipation. “Bet the kids were surprised to find out Santa’s a hillbilly, guess they skipped over that part in the fairy tales, eh?”

 

Fiddleford let out a squeaky giggle as Stan led him under the doorway. Stan was Jewish, and he’d never celebrated Christmas until he’s started living with McGucket; but he hadn’t even celebrated Hanukkah since he was a child – he may have been Jewish by ethnicity, but he was athiest by practice. Fiddleford, on the other hand, had celebrated Christmas since he was a boy; although he hadn’t anyone to celebrate it with for many, many years. That had all changed this year; the childlike wonder and joy in his companion’s smile and eyes almost made Stan forget that Fiddleford was a father himself.

 

Stan stopped below the mistletoe, rubbing the back of his head awkwardly. “Oh, would you look at that?” His gaze turned upwards, and McGucket’s eyes followed it curiously. “How did we end up here? Underneath…the mistletoe?” Stan’s voice came out rather robotically; he made a note about how bad at these kinds of things he was with the sort of frustration that followed all of his unsuccessful attempts at flirting.

 

Nonetheless, it seemed to work. A heavy blush spread across Fiddleford’s cheeks and ears; his mind, still struggling to accept that he was wanted, cartwheeled at the implication. He felt his knees go weak as he leaned upwards to kiss Stan.

 

Their lips met, Stan’s large hands cupping the old man’s cheeks, Fiddleford’s bony fingers fumbling against Stan’s broad back; finding the old rhythm left long ago with the departure of his wife; the last person he’d ever been with.  And now, Stan was the first person to invite him back in – _him_ , not the fresh-faced young Southern boy of 40 years ago, but _Old Man McGucket_ , with all his quirks and a brain 30 years broken.

 

As Stan’s face nuzzled up against the little old man’s beard, a vaguely familiar tune ran through his head

 

_I saw Grunkle kissing Santaaa Claus_


End file.
